I got off work later than usual. A kid got hurt when I wasn't looking—ah, that might make the story a bit long.

Anyway, when I opened the front door, exhausted, what greeted me wasn't a warm welcome but the cold, heavy air of the living room.

Usually, she would come running to greet me, but since she was quiet, I figured she was tired and headed straight for the bathroom.

I thought I'd wash up with the soap she likes, then hold her and soothe her, and she'd cheer up soon enough. I was thinking I should hurry up and get out—but then, my eyes caught the toothpaste tube, squeezed messily and hollowed out in the middle.

I must have told her dozens of times. Please squeeze it from the end. I don't know why this tiny, insignificant habit is getting on my nerves so much today. It felt like something built up finally snapped, and I ended up snapping at her.

"Is this really that hard?"

At my sharp tone, her expression stiffened instantly. With a face clearly showing her exhaustion, she started firing back.

Fatigue robbed us of the room to be considerate of each other, and the conversation quickly escalated into a sharp, thorny argument.

"You always think your way is the only right way, don't you?" "This isn't a matter of 'ways,' it's a matter of consideration."

Past grievances started trailing out like a string of candies. The small fragments we had tucked away since we started living together became sharp shards filling the living room.

I felt like one more word would make everything explode, something hot surged up inside me... and in the end, I spat out raw, unfiltered words.

"If it's going to be like this, maybe we should just live apart again."